


that we won't run

by silver-sparks (Madame_Marauder)



Series: black and silver [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: But whatever, Other, Regulus Black Lives, backstory for this au, comas and runes and awkward conversations, there's a background oc for like two paragraphs, yeehaw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 07:55:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19268968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madame_Marauder/pseuds/silver-sparks
Summary: Regulus Black dies a heroic, self-sacrificing death, striking a terrible blow against the Dark Lord Voldemort.And then he wakes up.





	1. welcome to the new age

    Once there was a boy.

     This boy was named after the stars, as was every child born in his family. His name meant  _ little prince,  _ according to his mother, and indeed it did. But if you asked his brother, wild and fierce and brave, he would tell you the other meaning;  _ lion-hearted. _

     This boy, this little lion-hearted prince, was a star, as was every member of his family. His brother was the brightest of them all, and the warmest, too. His parents were as cold and as distant as the night sky, as was the rest of the family. 

     This boy tried. He tried so hard; to be the perfect son, the perfect follower, the perfect pureblood. But then he discovered a terrible, terrible thing.

      The lion-hearted prince had no-one to turn to (his brother shone bright in another galaxy and his parents burned cold, cold) and so he dealt with things himself. He had no one to trust, and nearly died for it.

      But the thing is; he was a boy who  _ tried _ . The Sorting Hat had pled for Hufflepuff, so great was his determination. It had begged for Ravenclaw, so desperate was for his want for knowledge. It had even suggested Gryffindor, so steady was his courage.

      The lion-hearted prince had spent a life in second place, a life hidden in the libraries, a life tucked in others' shadows. He knew, oh so intimately, the power and danger of secrets.

      He knew that he could not die, not now. He could not die while he was still the only one who knew.

      Regulus Arcturus Black fights and struggles and frees himself, dragging himself back onto shore, his hands scraped raw and knuckles bleeding. Every fiber of his being screams in pain, in torment. There is no hope, no light, no life. All he can think of are his mistakes, his failures, his worst memories. No hope, no light- but there is obligation, somewhere. Determination, buried as it may be, to see this through.

      "Kreacher," he gasps out, as the encroaching darkness consumes him.

 

     He opens his eyes to a lesser pain and a sobbing house elf.

     "Master Regulus," Kreacher chokes out, clinging to his shoulders. "Master Regulus is awake. Finally awake!"

      Regulus opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Kreacher summons a glass of water from god knows where, and gently helps him sit up and take a sip. He's not as horrifically parched as he had been, in that awful cave, but his throat is so dry.

      "Kreacher," he manages to rasp. His voice is hoarse, like it hasn't been used in years, or like he's been screaming. "Where- how-"

       His dear, loyal elf just sobs again. "Master Regulus is calling Kreacher, Kreacher is coming back for him. Family tree and Mistress and the Dark Lord is thinking Master Regulus is dead. Only Kreacher is knowing, Kreacher is keeping Master Regulus alive."

       If everyone thinks he's dead, it must have been weeks, even months. "How long?" Regulus manages.

       "Four years," Kreacher wails, tugging on an ear. "Master Regulus has been unconscious for four years. Kreacher is looking after family, but Mistress is dying before the war is ending, and only Master Regulus is being left."

       Four years.

_        Four years? _

       "The war ended?" Regulus rasps out, because he might be half-dead in an empty house, but he still has his priorities in order. "Who won?"

        Kreacher is shaking his head. "Not the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord is being defeated by the Boy-Who-Lived, and war is ending."

        "Kreacher," Regulus sighs. "Thank you."

        The wonderful, devoted elf almost bursts into tears. "Anything for Master Regulus! Anything!"

        He tries to smile. "Then grab… grab the papers from the Dark Lord's fall?"

        Kreacher sighs, snaps his fingers, and the relevant papers appear. "Kreacher is making breakfast. Master Regulus is needing to eat on his own."

       "Yes, Kreacher," Regulus replies, and opens the first in the stack of papers. His hands shake as he does it, little tremors that are more annoying than problematic. Hopefully that will stop.

       As he discovers when he tries to stand on his own, in fact, it does not stop. It worsens, and he probably would have fallen if not for Kreacher's timely catch. 

       It's now officially problematic.

       Kreacher helps him limp to the bathroom, and Regulus stares at the bath with no small amount of concern. Standing water, always standing water.

        But Kreacher is a wonder and a genius, and keeps up a constant stream of almost meaningless chatter as he helps him. It does help that the water is warm, instead of the freezing cold of the hellish lake.

        Regulus still flinches, a few times, but there's no mental breakdowns, which is good.

        He's come to an unfortunate conclusion by the time he's managed to get dressed again, with no small amount of help from Kreacher. He's too unsteady, otherwise. 

        "Kreacher," Regulus says reluctantly. "I think I need a cane."

       That gets the expected look of worry, and the concerned frown, but Kreacher pops away and returns with one in each hand. The one on the left is made of smooth, dark wood, simply and elegantly carved; his great uncle's. The other is made of silver and ebony, the metal designs covering the handle and tracing down the length of the wood; his father's.

      He's definitely not using his father's.

      Regulus takes his great uncle's cane, and it's enough for him to make it back to his chair in his room. He can sense something Dark and awful down the hallway, in his mother's bedroom, but Kreacher shakes his head. "The locket. Kreacher is trying to destroy it, but the locket is not breaking."

      "It's alright," Regulus says quickly, before Kreacher can start getting upset with himself. "I'll figure something out, and do it myself. I'll be glad to see it destroyed."

      Kreacher nods, and they go back to his room in silent companionship. Regulus has been awake for… maybe an hour, two hours at most, but he's already exhausted.

      It's only after he's collapsed back into bed that he remembers to ask something rather important.

      "Kreacher," he asks softly, "where's my wand?"

       There's a long pause, before Kreacher just shakes his head. "Master Regulus did not have his wand when he called for Kreacher again. Kreacher is thinking it is in the lake. Kreacher is sorry, Master Regulus."

       Regulus stares at him, and runs a hand through his hair. "That's alright, Kreacher. It's not your fault. I'll just- I'll go to Ollivander's in the morning."

       "Master Regulus is not going to Diagon less than a day after he woke up," Kreacher says firmly, eyes narrowing. "Master Regulus is going to stay at home and heal, until he can walk on his own!"

        That little tirade has to make him smile. "Alright, Kreacher," Regulus agrees, and lies down before he can black out.

 

       The next few days are a blur of being almost exactly the same as one another. He wakes up, eats breakfast, flings himself into old newspapers, and falls asleep again. Kreacher wakes him up for lunch, and then he pours over various books from the family library, trying to figure out how to get this godforsaken Mark off of his arm.

       He's made very little progress, but he  _ can  _ tell where he's going to find his answers; runes. The Mark itself is a sort of rune, and a runic construct can only be broken down by another of the same. If he can manage to find the right set of runes, he can hopefully get rid of the damn thing. 

       Hopefully.

       But before he can make much more progress, he's going to need a wand.

       Kreacher fusses, but after a week and a half Regulus has a new and begrudging respect for Muggles, as well as a burning need to have a wand again.

       He floos to Diagon (he can hear his mother ranting about how unsteadily he steps through, unbefitting of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black) and manages to stay upright. It's a little pathetic, but he counts it as a major achievement.

       Fates bless his family's hoarding habit, and the cane and cash he got out of it.

       Diagon Alley is a sad, hollow echo of what it used to be. The stains and scars of the war are everywhere; closed shops that had been Muggleborn-owned, quieter shoppers and shopkeepers, a distinct lack of outside vendors or stalls.

       Oh, it's bright and busy enough, if you don't have anything to compare it to. But Regulus remembers being thirteen and sneaking out of the house in his brother's clothes, meeting Barty in the Alley and buying hot chocolate from the old woman who kept her stand outside the apothecary, laughing as they watched the wild dance on the conjured stage. He remembers looking on at the fierce and unrepentant joy of the street, no matter his parents' disapproval, and feeling it burn itself into his bones.

       But there is no hot chocolate, no dancing, no singing shopkeepers or laughing performers. The war had taken that. Not even the August weather seems to be properly warm, in the face of this odd emptiness. 

       Regulus burns in anger and shame, and steps into Ollivander's.

       This, at least, has not changed.

       "Ah," Ollivander says, peering at him from over the counter. "Mr. Black. Is there something wrong with your cypress wand?"

       Deep breath.

       "The old tales I heard about cypress wands are apparently true, when it comes to self-sacrifice. My heart stopped for about two minutes, if my house elf is to be believed," Regulus says evenly. "I'm afraid that wand was lost."

       Ollivander stares at him, leaning over the counter. "You speak the truth, Regulus Black."

       "I do," he affirms.

      The old wandmaker nods to himself. "I see. Yes, you will need a new wand. Not a water, no, no. Fire. You are fire, now, much like your brother… Pine? Redwood? Vine? Here. Redwood and unicorn hair, try a lumos."

        " _ Lumos _ ," Regulus whispers, feeling eleven instead of twenty-two.

        The wand sputters out a glow, but not a proper light. Ollivander snatches it away immediately. "That won't do. Pine and dragon heartstring, give it a try."

        " _ Lumos," _ Regulus repeats.

        The flare that the wand produces is a deep red, and nearly blinding. Regulus drops it back on the counter even without Ollivander's prompting.

       " _ Vine _ and dragon heartstring, unyielding," the wandmaker announces cheerfully.

       " _ Lumos _ ," Regulus tries again. This is just pathetic.

       The glow is far too dim, this time. Ollivander shakes his head. "No, no, alright. Tricky match, there. I wonder… holly and phoenix feather, perhaps?"

        " _ Lumos _ ," Regulus says for a fourth time, tamping down his impatience. He can't force a match to happen. The wand chooses the wizard, after all.

        The glow is warm and golden, but the wand feels like it's burning in his hand. Ollivander peers at him. "Fascinating. And, now, aspen and dragon heartstring. Curious, how curious."

        Regulus sighs, and takes the offered wand.  _ "Lumos _ ."

        And then the wand tip lights with the perfect warmth of a summer afternoon, bright and gentle and soothing all at once.

       "Well then," Ollivander says. "That'll be seven galleons." 

_ "Father's got a elm wand, because he's dignified," Sirius had said, sitting at the top of the stairs. "And Mother's wand is red oak, because she's, ah, quick to react, I'll say. And mine is blackthorn, which means I'm going to get in trouble, but come out of it stronger. I wanted aspen, but that's okay." _

_        "Why aspen?" Regulus had asked, looking up at his brother. _

_        Sirius had grinned. "It's a duellist's wand! But you've got to really believe in what you're doing, and be really determined about it. They say that it's a wand for someone who's going to bring change, that and vine. Ollivander called it a revolutionary's wand wood." _

       Regulus blinks away the memory, and digs the coins out of his pocket. "Thank you."

       He leaves as quickly as he can, but Ollivander calls after him, "But of course!"

       (The door shuts behind him, but he's fairly sure that he hears a faint  _ Mr. Sterling _ added onto that sentence. He shakes his head- Ollivander has always been odd- and walks on.)

 


	2. no regerts

       Days slip past, and turn into weeks. Weeks turn into one month, then two, then six.

       Regulus buries himself in books and research, scouring the library, sending Kreacher out to purchase whatever other materials he needs, and signs the owl-order forms as Leo Sterling- the lion constellation, and silver, for his house colors. There's no crushing pressure, for once, except for the pressure he puts on himself. No panic, no family members or teachers hovering over his shoulder, just him and the pile of knowledge.

        "Master Regulus should take a break and relax," Kreacher says, dragging him away from his desk and to the table for lunch.

        "I am relaxing, just let me grab my book," Regulus protests, before freezing and listening to his own words. "Merlin. I really should have Sorted into Ravenclaw."

        Kreacher scoffs, and hands him the book. "Master Regulus should eat lunch."

        "I'm coming," Regulus agrees, tucking the book under one arm and grabbing his cane.  He's needed it less, recently, but there are times that he'll feel unsteady and need to lean on it. If he didn't think potions would make it worse, he'd have done something to fix it, because the trembling is annoying as hell.

       He sits down and eats his sandwich, and then goes back to designing his rune array. His Dark Mark may be faded, but it is still  _ there _ , which means that Voldemort is still alive. Perhaps only in the loosest definition, reliant on his Horcruxes- because what Lucius and Bella had received were most certainly more of the monstrous things- but he was alive nonetheless.

       And this is the obligation that had kept him alive; not another soul alive knows of the Horcruxes. If he were to die, there would be no-one else to truly end Voldemort. The Dark Lord would rise again, and it would be blood on Regulus's hands, because he was too proud to share his knowledge. He must find someone else to trust with the knowledge.

      He just doesn't know  _ who  _ he could tell.

      Nobody that he used to trust, certainly. He and they landed on opposite sides of the war, and there is no bridging his betrayal, or their crimes. No, his old friends and family are out.

      Well, he'll figure something out later.

       It's a plan worthy of his dear, Gryffindor, apparently-just-like-their-parents brother.

      Step one; remove the Dark Mark.

      Step two; kill the Dark Lord.

      Simple enough.

      He writes to runic experts, under that name of Leo Sterling, and the only one who doesn't call him mad is a Muggleborn witch in France. Her name is Marie Durand, and she asks to see his notes on how his "brother's" Mark works. They strike up a fascinating correspondence.

      In fact, they meet over lunch in Paris, their magical books spelled to look like Muggle ones. She's charming, and charmed by the fact that he can speak French fluently.

      "My family name means endurance, you know," Marie says. "Your brother, to have endured being pressured into a Dark Lord's service… he may deserve the name more. You are very brave to help him, too."

      Regulus smiles awkwardly. "Many schoolmates of mine endure worse, I'm afraid. Several of the young Death Eaters did not wish to be there, but would have been killed by their families for refusing to join."

      Marie makes a small, sad noise. "I am so sorry. But let us compare notes,  _ oui _ ? I am going to work in the Americas soon. There are many places in need of wards there, but I will be kept very busy."

      "Of course," Regulus agrees, and they lean over the books together, food forgotten. She writes her notes on tiny pieces of paper that stick to things on their own, and laughs at his expression. 

      "Muggle post-it notes," she explains. "Brilliant things, they make life much easier. I have another package, here. Keep them."

      They decide that it would be best for him to look into ritual magics, since there was such a defined process to getting a Dark Mark that it may well have been a ritual itself. Marie leaves him with a thousand new ideas, a package of bright yellow post-it notes, and a general sense of bewilderment.

      He's already mostly stopped, but Regulus stares into his cold coffee and swears to never call anyone a  _ mudblood _ again.

      It takes him eight months to make the damn runes work. He's careful, checking over every last line of every last book, but there's only one way to test this thing.

      There's only one Dark Mark to remove.

      (Only one  _ arm to potentially lose, _ as Kreacher helpfully reminds him.)

       Eight months after he woke up, exact to the day, Regulus clears out the spare bedroom and draws out his runic circle. This attempt is a shameful bastardization of ritual magic and runic arrays, but it's the best thing that he can possibly manage.

       If it fails, and he survives that failure, he'll try something else. But this, this seems like the best option he has.

      He tells Kreacher not to come into the room until the ritual is done, and not to interfere even if anything starts to go wrong. Interference could kill them both.

      Kreacher nods, and gives him the lightest, most undignified hug before stepping back. "Master Regulus is certain?"

      "I am," he promises, and steps into the room. The outer ring of wards go up as he steps inside, then the center of ritual glyphs, and he kneels within the innermost circle. His wand is safe with Kreacher; he wears a new pair of crisp slacks, and his own shirt from his Hogwarts uniform. Nothing he'll miss terribly, if something goes wrong, but something old and something new.

      He cuts his hand open, and allows a single drop of blood to hit the floor. The white chalk of the runes lights up a brilliant gold.

      "I name myself Regulus Arcturus Black," he declares. Something flares silver, just out of sight, but he ignores it. No hesitation, not now. "I name my enemy Tom Marvolo Riddle."

      Oh, how bitter it had been to learn the Dark Lord's true name. He claimed pure blood, spilled pure blood, but was sired by a Muggle. What a  _ waste _ .

       "I sever my bond to serve Tom Marvolo Riddle. I sever my bond to serve the Dark Lord Voldemort," Regulus continues. The Dark Mark begins to glow the same gold as the runes painted around it, and the ones on the floor.

      Regulus takes a breath. "I sever my loyalty to the Dark Lord Voldemort. I claim my life as my own, my magic as my own, my body as my own, and my mind as my own. I claim my soul as my own, and sever the bond between myself and Tom Marvolo Riddle."

       It burns, oh, how it burns. It burns like ice and fire and cruelty and despair. It burns like hatred, like fear, like hopelessness.

       "I name myself Regulus Arcturus Black," Regulus declares, and steadies himself. "I name myself Leo Regulus Sterling. And I sever this bond. So I say, so mote it be."

       The runes flare, the pain goes from manageable to indescribable, and the world goes dark.

       But only for a few heartbeats.

       He opens his eyes to see the chalk gone, and the runes scorched into the wooden floor. His head pounds in pain; his heart pounds in anxiety. His arm aches.

      But Regulus forces himself to sit upright, to unbutton his sleeve and pull it up. He might throw up if this failed. He might throw up, period. 

      He looks, and all that's left on his arm is a faint burn, an oval bordered by where his runes had been painted. A slight, half-healed burn. That's all.

      No Mark.

      Leo Regulus Sterling, twenty-two years old and sitting in a darkened spare bedroom in his childhood home, pulls his knees to his chest and sobs in relief.

 


	3. how to accidentally become a teacher

       He may have freed himself from Voldemort- and isn't that a beautiful sight, his bare forearm, only a slight burn left in the shape of an oval- but his work is far from finished. The Horcruxes remain, and he is still the only one who knows of them.

      "Master Regulus cannot be trusting old friends," Kreacher reminds him gently, catching him staring at the picture pinned to his wall. He's taken a page out of Sirius's book, and covered the space over his desk in photographs and clippings. Some of them are from old newspapers, for research purposes, but more are pictures of friends or notes he's left himself.

_ Dumbledore???? _ one of them demands, written on a yellow post-it, the name circled three or four times in thick black marker. 

      Regulus sighs.

      "I know," he admits. "I just don't know who I can trust."

      Kreacher frowns. "Master Regulus's brother is in Azkaban. Master Regulus's friends are in Azkaban. Master Regulus is needing to talk to a Light wizard."

_ Dumbledore????  _ the post-it insists.

      "You're right," Regulus agrees, sighing and relenting. He opens the drawer reluctantly, and pulls out a piece of parchment, plain, no family crest in sight. Dumbledore will surely recognize him, but there's no need to tip his hand just yet.

       He goes through about six or seven attempts at the letter, before he finally manages to hammer out something he can stand. 

_  Headmaster Dumbledore, _

_ I have recently become aware of a series of artifacts owned by one T.M. Riddle, and thought you would like to be made aware of their (and his) continued existence. I do acknowledge that you may not trust me, but I ask that you hear me out, for the good of all. _

_ Sincerely, Leo R. Sterling. _

       It's not the best thing he's ever written, nor the cleverest or most persuasive, but it certainly is the most important. If Dumbledore turns him away, then he's not sure what he can do. The man is already his last resort.

      Regulus bothers to look at the calendar, for once, and is relieved to see it announcing July. The Headmaster might actually have a chance to respond, or at least to consider.

      He ties the letter to Hermes's leg- she's thankfully a plain owl, dark brown with spots, and cleverer than any other owl he's met- and sighs yet again. "Only wait for a reply of you think he's going to write one, alright? Good girl. I'll see you soon."

       She spreads her wings, and looks back at him in exasperation.  _ I'm not stupid, _ the look says. Regulus laughs, and lets her out the window.

      "Master Regulus should sleep," Kreacher announces from the doorway. "Master Regulus should  _ not  _ be staying up and waiting for a response."

      "Yes, Kreacher," Regulus replies, and unhooks his cane from the arm of his chair. "I'm coming."

      There's a response waiting for him on the dining table in the morning, and a very smug owl on her perch in the front parlor. 

_ Mr. Sterling, _

_ I find myself concerned and intrigued by this series of artifacts you speak of. Perhaps we could meet in person to discuss them. My office would make the safest place to discuss such delicate matters, I believe. _

_ Sincerely, Headmaster of Hogwarts,  A.P.W.B Dumbledore. _

      If the old man is using his titles, and not allowing them to meet on neutral ground, then he is obviously concerned, and sees either the Horcruxes or Regulus himself as a threat.

       Or rather, sees  _ Leo  _ as a threat.

       He's going to use that public persona for a long time, it seems. He might as well get used to being called by name. He  _ had  _ claimed it as his own, anyway.

       Regulus sits down, and writes a swift and calm reply. It wouldn't do to put the old man on his guard any more than he already has.

_ Headmaster Dumbledore _ ,

_ I would be glad to meet with you to discuss these artifacts. Let me know when you can best arrange a meeting, and I will gladly tell you what I know. _

_                  Sincerely, Leo Sterling. _

      Hermes takes flight with her usual exasperated glance, like he's greatly inconveniencing her by asking her to deliver letters and do her job. Regulus stares after her, hoping that he's made the right move.

       The reply arrives over lunch, and Hermes doesn't bother settling in, only watches him expectantly.

_ Mr. Sterling, _

_         My schedule finds itself clear this Friday morning at 11. Our Deputy Headmistress McGonagall will wait at the start of the path to Hogsmeade to escort you up. I expect to see you soon. _

_                Sincerely, Headmaster of Hogwarts,  A.P.W.B Dumbledore. _

__  Regulus dashes off a short confirmation of the time and date, and as Hermes takes off, hurries to sort through his notes. It's Wednesday, after all, and there's no shortage of things he needs to prepare. Notes, clothes,  _ Occlumency _ .

 

      Kreacher has outdone himself. 

      The pressed white button down, dark vest and slacks, and leather briefcase are perfectly Muggle. The dragonhide boots, however, are unmistakably wizarding. His hair is longer than he'd kept it when he was younger, and can be neatly tied back without issue. 

       All in all, the outfit practically oozes _tolerant_ _pureblood,_ which is exactly the point.

       "Master Regulus is staying safe, now," Kreacher warns, handing him his briefcase. "Master Regulus is not being impulsive."

       "Of course, Kreacher," Regulus agrees, double and triple checking over his case. Notes, other notes, spare quill and chalks,  _ other _ notes. Right. "I'll see you soon," he adds, and Apparates away.

       He's practiced this carefully, since his… return, he'll call it. His landings had sent him sprawling at first, as bad as when he first learned Apparition, but by now he's steady enough that he can manage to look almost dignified while stepping back into reality.

       But even if he had stumbled, there's no-one there to have seen him. He'd thought that Diagon had dimmed, but comparatively, Hogsmeade had been  _ abandoned. _

      Honeydukes is open and well, as is Madame Puddifoot's and Zonko's. But the lovely little shop with the House pride sweaters is gone, as is the student-level apothecary, and the once-welcoming glow from the always-open doorway of the Three Broomsticks is now dull from behind a closed door. There are no garlands or charmed lights strung between the buildings, no music or laughter in the air.

       Regulus inhales, and Leo exhales. He is one and the same, and the name he'd chosen for himself has no weight except what he himself gives to it. There is no Ancient and Most Noble House to live up to, no high expectations, no delicate status or power to maintain. It's just him, from here on out, once he uses this name with those who matter.

       Just him.

       It's oddly freeing.

       Professor McGonagall stands at the edge of town, hands clasped, watching him expectantly. Of course; he's the only stranger in this half-empty town.

       He takes his cane from his arm, and leans on it, adjusting his briefcase before steeling his nerves and approaching.

       Her eyes flick over him. "Leo Sterling, I presume?"

       Leo feels his insides twist at the lack of recognition in her eyes. At least he knows this is working. "Yes. Professor McGonagall, I presume?"

       She gives him a sharp look, but nods. "Indeed. The castle is this way. You did not attend Hogwarts, did you?"

       "I was tutored at home," he replies, because it's the truth. "I heard it's a beautiful school, though. My cousins attended, and adored it."

       McGonagall raises an eyebrow. "Oh? What house were they in?"

       "Here and there," Leo replies, before sighing. "Well. One was here and the rest of the family was there. It was part of the reason my parents were unsure about letting me attend, didn't want me to deal with the divisions caused by that."

_ Technically _ , not one word of that is a lie.

      "A larger wizarding family?" McGonagall guesses, already doing her best to poke holes in his story. "Would it happen to be the House of Black?"

      Leo doesn't even have to fake his wince. "Yes. There was a squib disinherited from the family, who married a muggle, and eventually, well. Here I am."

_ Again _ , not a lie.

     "Marius Black's line, I see," McGonagall replies, never once taking her eyes off of him, gauging his reaction. "And yet you were tutored at home?"

      "Mum and Dad were both magical. Mum was French, though, and Dad wasn't very strong. He learned from the books that my grandfather took from the family library."

      Mother's side of the family  _ was  _ French, and his father  _ was  _ magically weaker than most of the family.

       "I see," McGonagall says, and they walk up the path alongside the lake. She's quiet for a long moment, then adds, "That's a very nice cover, Regulus. I don't think anyone other than Albus and Severus and I would see through it, not without Legilimency."

      Regulus almost trips over his own cane.

      She sighs at him. "I practically raised your brother,  _ Leo. _ He tracked down Marius Black in his sixth year, and the man had a daughter, nit a son. But to anyone other than me, that story would hold up perfectly. You're a credit to Slytherin cleverness."

     "You aren't-"

     "Severus Snape teaches potions, and makes Hufflepuffs cry on a weekly basis. No, I am not allowed to judge foolish young men with a Mark on their arms," McGonagall retorts harshly, frustration clear.

      Regulus- Leo stops in his tracks, fumbling at his cufflinks. He's not- he needs her to know- he isn't  _ that  _ anymore.

      He pushes up his sleeve to show the healed-over oval burn, only a faint shade more red than the rest of his skin, no Dark Mark in sight. 

      "How about foolish young men without one?" he challenges.

      She stares at him for a long, painful moment, leaning forward to peer at his skin. Leo tries not to breathe too heavily, standing there with his briefcase held in his left hand, his cane hooked over his right elbow, holding his sleeve up. It feels like a moment that will shatter into a thousand pieces if he dares disturb it.

       But eventually, McGonagall straightens up, and fixes him with an unreadable gaze. "I see I have underestimated you, Mr. Sterling. Follow me."

      Leo lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and pulls his sleeve back down, buttoning it again, before following his former professor into the castle he once called home.

  
  


       "Headmaster," McGonagall calls out, pushing open the office door. "Leo Sterling is here to see you."

       Dumbledore is seated behind his desk, as unchanged as the space around him. Whereas McGonagall has aged and greyed, and Hogsmeade has faded and shrunk, the Headmaster and his office are identical to the last time Regulus had seen them. It should seem reassuring, to see Hogwarts holding steady, but instead it's just unnerving.

       He was the leader of the Light, and yet he seems to bear none of the consequences of his actions.

       "Mr. Sterling," Dumbledore says, eyes twinkling. "Please, have a seat. I believe I would be correct in guessing that your middle initial stands for Regulus?"

      For Merlin's sake-

      Leo snaps his Occlumency barriers up higher, and sighs. "Yes, professor."

      Dumbledore smiles at him cheerily, but Regulus has grown up as a child and heir in the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. He can tell that the old man is distrustful, nervous. It's in the set of his shoulders, in the way he folds his hands on the desk.

       "You will forgive me my surprise, I hope," Dumbledore says evenly. "I was rather convinced that you had died."

       And at that, Leo grins, letting it be as wild and roaring an expression as his brother's always was.  _ Fire _ , Ollivander had said. "Well, that was the general idea. But my heart did stop for a minute or two, apparently, so that assumption may not be entirely off. The legal family trees certainly had the same idea."

       Hook.

       "And might I ask what you were doing, such that your heart stopped?" Dumbledore asks, leaning forwards.

       "Ah," Leo replies. "Well. Betraying the Dark Lord rather spectacularly, if I do say so myself. Nearly died- like I said, I technically  _ did _ \- and it sent me into a coma that I only woke from last July. I can't say I'm sorry to have jumped straight to a time where I could safely finish my research."

       Line.

       Dumbledore raises an eyebrow. "And what are you researching?"

       "Two questions, and I've answered one," Leo replies. "How to remove the Dark Mark, and how to kill the Dark Lord."

       "He is not dead," Dumbledore agrees. McGonagall bows her head. "Do you happen to know why?"

       And sinker.

       "My good sir," Leo announces, leaning forward just as much. "I stole one of his Horcruxes."

 

       Dumbledore all but interrogates him, and Leo answers readily. They've got to be on the same page, if they're going to do this.

       "The only readily available way to destroy them is Fiendfyre," Regulus admits. "I plan on gathering them all together, and burning them all in one swoop."

       The headmaster shakes his head. "I fear that is not quite possible, my boy. There is one… there is one that I know of, and it cannot be destroyed that easily."

       Leo just raises an eyebrow.

       "The night that Voldemort fell," Dumbledore sighs, "his soul was already in shreds. And he created an accidental Horcrux, that night, when young Harry Potter defeated him."

     "The cottage? Something inside it?" Leo guesses. "I know the place is a monument, but surely we can-"

      "Harry," Dumbledore corrects. His eyes have lost that twinkle. "Harry."

      Leo freezes. "Pardon?"

      "Harry Potter is a Horcrux," Dumbledore announces, bowing his head. "I've looked for another way, but I'm afraid he must-"

      "No," Leo cuts in. "Absolutely not. We are not letting my brother's godson die! We'll find another way, figure out how to move it to some other vessel. I got rid of the Dark Mark, I can get rid of a little chunk of Tom Riddle."

      Dumbledore smiles at him sadly. "I would be glad to see you try, my boy. I pray that you are right, and that young Harry will not need to meet his end at Voldemort's hand."

      "He won't," Leo insists. Swears. Vows. "Too many innocents have died in his war already."

      The old man across from him sighs. "Indeed they have. Perhaps you may modify the process used to remove that Dark Mark of yours."

       Leo raises an eyebrow. "I'd have to rework the entire process. A Horcrux and a Dark Mark are not equivalent things. The runic construct would be completely different."

        Dumbledore leans forward. "You seem quite talented with runes. Have you ever considered teaching the subject?"


End file.
